The cold, damp air of the Hogwarts corridor hung heavy as footsteps echoed along the stone floor. The silence pressed in on the walls, undisturbed and breathless. A cracked door stood slightly ajar at the end of the hallway. Inside, Quirrell stood before a fractured mirror, his fingers working methodically to unwind his turban. His hands trembled faintly, but his reflection remained fixed, his posture rigid. On the back of his head, a grotesque face emerged—its lips curled in a faint smirk, its eyes half-lidded and still.

Quirrell turned, his gaze landing directly on the doorway. There was no trace of surprise, only a steady, unreadable calm.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” he said. His voice was smooth—absent of its usual stammer.

He stepped forward, measured and composed. “And who do you think will believe you?” he asked. “I’m just the harmless, stuttering fool. No one suspects me.”

Another step. The air between him and the door tightened. “I’ll blame Snape. Everyone already suspects him. You? You’ll be just another confused child, lost in your imagination.” His smile lingered, cold and deliberate.